Fairytales come true
by I'm Nova
Summary: An alternative first meeting for the boys. Sparked from Tumblr's Sherlock challenge, prompt "on the tube".


_Disclaimer: I don't own a single thing (obviously)._

Fairytales come true

Looking forward to the trip on the Tube, to and from Ella, is more pathetic than John would ever admit to…but it's true. The combination of human beings around him, and nobody actually paying attention to him, allows him to indulge in one of his secret hobbies. People watching.

He can covertly observe, imagine what they're up to, pretend that he's not entirely alone in the world, and at the same time there's no pressure. He doesn't need to be appear still skilful, to behave as if his experiences haven't left their mark on him. Of course they have…and nobody cares. But for the random child, people know better than to give him more than a passing glance.

Still, these trips are nothing memorable. A moment in time that won't stay with him once back in his dull, frankly depressing bedsit. Then, it all changes. John has never thought back to his childhood's fairytales in decades, and if asked, would never answer that they could be literal experiences, until he's proven wrong.

A staple of the tube are beggar musicians playing, either on the platform or walking through the carriages. Mostly, it's guitars, the odd brass, or an exotic instrument. John has never seen a violinist going round, frankly. And he's never heard a musician that brings to mind the Pied Piper. The music is not just good… it's entrancing.

John finds himself hobbling behind the man, following him to the next carriage, almost unconsciously. He is mildly wondering why everyone else isn't doing the same. How can they allow such a divine melody to get away after only a few bars?

More shocking is that the young man is evidently – given his appearance – homeless. How can that be possible? He should be playing at the Royal Albert Hall, not on a crowded train. Someone should have told him. Offered him a job. A place. John can't do any of that – he's certainly no headhunter – but, well, he can't stand the idea of this young Apollo sleeping rough and possibly being attacked either.

In his pursuit, he finally manages to arrive shoulder to shoulder with the player, and in a lull of the music, he breathes, "You're amazing."

"I noticed you," the violinist replies, blushing but with wary eyes.

"Oh, sorry, I must have looked like a stalker or something, but I promise I'm safe. I'm a doctor, you see. I just want to help," John mumbles.

"I'm not ill, Doctor…or should I say soldier?" the stranger retorts snappishly.

"How do you know? Not that I'm a soldier anymore, but well…I was," the veteran asks, more and more awed.

Instead of replying, the man dashes out of the car – they've come to a stop – and somehow, it looks not so much as if John finally managed to chase him away in fear, but as if he's pursuing someone. The way his eyes turned to steel just before he bolted. An intensity in him that reminds the doctor irresistibly of a hound. He's seen his share of men running away and hunting down enemies, and knows the difference in his bones. Without even thinking, he runs after his new acquaintance, too.

John doesn't ask. When his violinist tries to subdue a struggling man – another homeless, little more than a child, slipping away from the stranger's hold and disappearing quickly – he helps out. His training is useful, this time. In seconds, the man is helpless under him. John might have done a bit more than technically needed to simply stop him, but who the fuck touches a child?

In the meantime, the man he's been following has dashed off a quick text to someone, and sneers, "This is the last time you hurt someone. Inspector Lestrade is on his way. And honestly, venting your murderous instincts on homeless kids because you thought nobody would notice, or care? You're not just scum. You're stupid scum, and that's worse."

The bastard just glares back. With the way John is holding him, it's not like he can do much more.

But then the gorgeous stranger turns to him, and says, "I have to apologise, doctor. For a moment, I suspected you might be the man responsible for the recent disappearances. I was trying – well, hoping – to bait him. He should have been on that train, and you _were_ tailing me."

"Well, you make it hard not to follow you…you're amazing on so many different levels," the doctor retorts, grinning. He hasn't felt this alive in months. And yes, even if he's starting to suspect that this man is completely out of his league, and so very much not a random homeless needing help – not when he looks and speaks like a king – he accidentally flirts with him. What's the worst that can happen?

The soft blush colouring sharp cheekbones is simply adorable. John is not sure if he should be happy or irked to be interrupted just then by a policeman. The cop – grey-haired, and looking stern (after all, he knows what he's going to find) – throws a look at the situation and groans, "Christ, Sherlock, don't tell me there's two of you now!"

"Never mind that, Lestrade. Here you have your murderer of my homeless. Found and trapped for you, as I promised. I'll send Tim over to the Yard to witness what this man tried to do to him. The doctor has been nothing but helpful, as any concerned citizen should be," the violinist – Sherlock? Is that even a name? – snaps.

"Doctor, eh?" Lestrade asks, relieving John of his burden.

"Doctor John Watson, yes. Can I come by Scotland Yard later for my own testimony? I expect I'll have to, but…" he replies. It's not like he has anything going. All he had to do was to go back to his bedsit and stare at shit-coloured walls. But he's acted on instinct, and now he suddenly feels how ridiculous his behaviour has been. Sure, he's helped thwart a crime…but what was he even thinking?

"Sure, I guess…but I'll expect you tomorrow morning," the policeman agrees, leading his prisoner away.

As soon as he's out of earshot – which in the chaos of the platform is not that far – Sherlock states, "So, you want to help."

"Well, yes, but…you don't need it, do you? Gosh, I made a fool of myself. Sorry," John replies, wishing the earth would kindly open and swallow him up.

"Who said I don't? I might not need to rely on you for the next meal, but I am looking for a flatmate, actually. And you've just proven that you would be a precious asset in my work, with your many talents," the other retorts.

"And your work would be? Sorry, but you said my homeless, and for all I know that officer just now is corrupt and you're a racket kingpin or something…" the doctor quips, shrugging.

Sherlock laughs at the accusation. Even his laughter is music. "People most usually assume I'm a serial killer myself, or one in the making, at least, but don't let Lestrade hear you questioning his ethics. I'm a consulting detective. Whenever the police are out of their depth - which is always - they consult me. And as you saw, I get them their criminal – or at least I give them enough to catch it. I said 'my homeless' because I employ some of London's homeless to help sometimes. You have no idea how much they see – nobody ever pays attention to them," he explains. "Now, about that flatshare…"

"Hey, slow down – who's saying I will?" John cuts in. It's not like he has much money.

"The fact that you forgot your cane on the train and haven't needed it since," the sleuth answers smugly.

Suddenly the doctor realises that yes, he has…and isn't that a compelling argument to never leave this madman's side.

"Anyway, as I was saying, flatmates should know the worst of each other…So, for fairness' sake, I'll have to warn you that sometimes I don't talk for days on end. And I play the violin when I'm thinking… but somehow, I don't think that'll be a problem, do you?" the detective continues, winking at the end.

John can only shake his head vigorously. God help him, he's already smitten.


End file.
